And All I Can Taste Is This Moment
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: Title from the lyrics of 'Iris,' but this is NOT a songfic. Instead, this is a Dave/Kurt twoshot dedicated to my 400th 'Rewrite' reviewer, hpgleek713. Includes arguments, kissing, confusion, emotion, and unrequited love. Rated T for teenage themes.
1. Dave:: Just Want You To Know Who I Am

**A/N: This drabble/oneshot is dedicated to **_**hpgleek713**_** for being my 400****th**** review on my Kurtofsky story, 'Rewrite'! They mentioned how they like the way I write Dave and Kurt kissing scenes, so… **

**HERE'S S'MORE KISSIN' IN A RANDOM SIT-U-ATION, AND 'S ALL GOOD, AMIRIGHT? 8D**

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"Dammit, Karofsky, I said that I didn't want anything to do with you! Why don't you listen?"

I can't help it if I can't stay away from you. You're this addiction I have, this craving I get all the time, and I no matter how hard I try, I can't quit you. I want to – for my sanity, I know I need to – but I can't.

"Let go of me. I know I'm back at McKinley, now, but that doesn't mean you have the right to come near me at all! What is your major malfunction, anyway? Too gay to function?"

It's true. I am too gay to function. I can't deal with it nor accept it. I don't want it, can't be it; not in high school. Not when I'm in sports, especially football. Gay doesn't fit me. It doesn't seem like it'd work with me. But I want you, Kurt. I love everything about you, even the bad parts, and definitely all of the good parts. Every last bit of you I hunger for but can't have.

"Say something, you dumb hamhock! Stop staring at me and just _say_ something!"

"You're not scared," I murmur. All I see in your eyes is anger and hatred, but no more fear.

"Yeah, well, I got over it. You aren't worth my terror," you spit back at me, eyes locking with mine. I pull you in closer where I have you by the wrist, and I reach down and grab your other wrist to stabilize you as you stumble forward. But my grip isn't very tight; I know my strength, and I'm hardly using it. You could break free if you wanted. Why aren't you breaking free?

"Kurt," I breathe, and you look at me, startled. I rarely use your first name. I rarely – if ever – speak this softly, this tenderly. I angle my head down and drop my forehead onto your warm shoulder. "I missed you."

I can feel your fists unclench by the way the tendons in your wrists relax. You sound huffy and embarrassed as you retort bitterly, "That's a lie. Why would _you _of all people miss me? You hate me. You bullied me. Still are, right now, by the way you're acting aggressively. I swear, anything can set you off! I should start calling you the Hulk."

I wince when you call me that. I'm not _that _big, and rarely get _that _angry. I inhale brokenly, shakily. "Kurt, please… Stop…" I beg through clenched teeth, and I sound a little irritated, but really, I'm just hurt.

_Stop resisting me._

"'Please' what, Karofsky? Stop _what?_ –I'm not doing anything to you! I've never hurt you the way you've physically abused me. Why do you act like this?"

You hurt me all the time, but you don't realize it. You never see how much you burn me inside, how you make my heart ache, how much I pine for you all the time but don't want to, can't get to, because I shouldn't be a homo like you, I shouldn't want to kiss you so fiercely or hold you so close to me like this. Even now as I breathe in your intoxicating scent from your clothes and breathe hotly into your shoulder, I move closer, always needing to be closer, because…

"Because I love you."

You freeze in place, but then you whip backward violently, tearing yourself from me; my head snaps upward, staring, and my hands grow cold without your skin between my fingers.

"Love? What the hell do you know about _love,_ Karofsky? You can't hurt the people you love! You can't love the person you harass! That doesn't make any sense, and it goes against everything ever portrayed about love," you hurl at me, yelling, and it echoes against the walls of the empty choir room.

I knew it was a mistake to come here after your Glee Club meeting ended. I knew you would reject me.

But I had to try. Clearing my throat, I confess, "I've been so lost without you around, Kurt. I've been falling apart piece by piece… Even though I was bullying you, it was the only way. I couldn't let anyone know, but I needed to get it out somehow. I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I'm backwards, but I'm only human; I'm only a teenager, I'm only one guy, I'm just… Dave Karofsky," I say harshly, lowly; I'm torn up inside. Tears spring to my eyes and I force them back. "Please, Kurt. I just want one moment with you. One where I can tell you how much I missed you and how much I need and love you and… and just stop resisting for one moment, okay? Only once, that's all I ask. Let me let my guard down just this once, and I swear I will never bother you again."

You eye me suspiciously, but you seem to understand my words and motives. You come closer, just a step, merely a few inches, but it's enough. I sigh through my nose with relief, and a small smile graces my lips.

"You… swear you'll never touch me again if I do this? Give you this?"

"You have my word, Kurt. God, you have my whole heart and soul that I will never slushie you or insult you or touch you ever again if you give me this one moment. I'll act like you don't exist. I might glance your way, but I promise to drop my eyes if ours connect, and I swear I will never shove or lay a single finger on you again," I say firmly, determinedly, and with as much strength in my pokerface as I can give.

You nod slowly, unsurely, and exhale weakly. "Fine. I'll do it. But only because I'm desperate for the torment to end and for less stress in my life. Without you in it, without being paranoid over you every time I round a corner or go to class, I can rest easier and finish out this year and all of next year with my old personality back."

It cuts me deep to hear you say that; I love you so much, but you hate my guts. I did that, though. It's my fault, so I shouldn't be hurting this badly. I know I was wrong, and I hate myself more than you hate me because of it. All because I was such an asshole to you. But after having you gone for months… Months and months without you around… It's all I can do right now to keep myself controlled and not grab you again, not bring you flush against me and kiss you.

I take a step closer, and you barely flinch. You wait. I come closer still, and you're fine. "Get this over with, Karofsky," you hiss viciously, and you have the best facial expressions, Kurt. And your voice is so much lower and so undeniably sexy when you growl like that, even if it's meant to be out of spite.

I cup your jaw in one hand, smoothing my thumb over your skin; it's so flawless, better than anything I've ever felt, and I love that I can feel it under my fingertips again.

You close your eyes before I touch you. You're keeping them shut tight, the lids quivering, as you brace yourself. I try not to think how you might be picturing your prep school friend, Blaine. I try not to think how this means you truly can't stand me. I shove away all the negativity and focus solely on _you._

I lean down carefully, and go slow as I brush, touch, and finally press my lips to your mouth. I have to be gentle. I have to prove to you how much I love you, truly do, and now that you've giving me the chance and time, I can pour it all out of my heart without fear of getting caught or having you push me away again.

Kurt, why are your lips so perfect? Plump and flushed with color and smooth and soft, but firm and tasting very clearly of boy and there's a musky sweetness like honey on your lips, and idly I wonder if you wear honey-laced lip balm to keep your lips this moist and perfect.

You're warm, so warm, under my hands; I reach out and slide my free hand around your waist and onto your hip, pulling you to me until our chests collide gently. The hand I have on your face I choose to move back into your hair at the base of your head as I bend my own head down and angle my mouth to deepen the kiss, my lips moving over yours.

I'm shocked to find you playing along, for your future safety's sake or my evident desperation, I don't know. But I don't care about your reasoning, because you're kissing back, and as I open my mouth and lick your lips, you actually let me inside. You open your mouth to me, your hands coming up and gripping feebly at the front of my polo over my collarbones. You cling to the fabric, fisting it and making a muffled grunt into my mouth as I thoroughly explore that wet cavern.

I play with your tongue, suck on your bottom lip, tickle the roof of your mouth with the tip of my tongue, and all the while feel overjoyed as you kiss me back with just as much effort. As payback, I think, you nip my lips, your teeth grazing and temporarily pinching the tender skin, and it is like nothing I've ever felt. I moan into your mouth; softly, pathetically, nearly like the helpless whimper that escaped me the very first time I had kissed you all those months ago.

But shockingly, you press against me, going on the pads of your feet to get taller and more leverage on me. You kiss me violently, trying to gain control as you move the tongue play from your mouth to mine and turn it into a battle.

I'm making all sorts of noises now, gasps and grunts and whimpers as my hands start scanning your smaller frame. Kurt, I just love how I can feel your lungs – such air control after all that singing – contract in your ribcage, and as I move one hand closer to your sternum, the other down to your hipbone, I can feel your heart beating as erratically as mine, as quickly as a rabbit's.

I moan again, stumbling back a step, taking you with me, and I run into the piano. I catch myself with the hand from your heart flying backward to my side. My thumb presses against the bone of your pelvis through the fabric of your pants.

You are so different, suddenly. So much more willing, so much surer of yourself, and I almost can't handle it. You're everywhere; your hands are zipping up and down my shirtfront, curving around my abdomen to my back, pushing me until I get up onto the piano, sitting on it, kissing down at an angle to your mouth where your entire body is trapped between my legs, your torso touching my inner knees, and you are just driving me crazy.

I can't believe it. Soon you're kissing down my jaw and neck, yanking open the three buttons on the top of my pullover polo, kissing whatever skin you can reach, avoiding my chest hair. You run one hand under my shirt up my body, and a shiver courses down my spine.

I love you. I love you.

I want to say it over and over with the way you're touching me. Are you only doing this so I keep good on my promise? I was going to anyway, but those sucks and nips and stray licks you're giving me to my neck and shoulder and earlobe is maddening. I keep my hands trained to your shoulders and hair, one tangled up in your mussed coif and the other dangling diagonally down your spine from where my elbow rests on your shoulder. I can feel your shoulder blades moving under my forearm, and I can't suppress the whines and moans that fall out of my mouth.

"Kurt… Fancy… Kurt…"

Your name and my nickname for you, over and over, mashing together, the tone a mingled mess of affection and lingering scraps of detestation for what you do to me.

I love you, but hate you.

I hate you so much sometimes, because I know this isn't real. It's momentary, and then everything will be back to normal, but _worse, _because I promised not to be near you any more if you gave me this.

I hate myself, too, for swearing to that. Giving you my word on that. After having this taste of you, this brush with passion, how could I ever think that I wouldn't just want you even _more?_

I'm a fool. I'm a coward and a fool. And I love you, Kurt, I love you and need you, but you're only doing this to probably quell some of your teenage hormones and get me off your back permanently.

_Damn it._

I turn my face into your neck as my head drops forward, my hips bucking where I sit on the piano, because I can't take it. My nose catches a whiff of your scent again, and I start placing scattered kisses and suckles on your tender, delicate throat, your skin like warm milk under my lips.

You make a keening noise, lips parting from my skin, hands stilling on my body, as I work around one of your collarbones with my mouth. Your nails scratch down my sides over my shirt, and it doesn't hurt. It tingles me, and I sigh into your skin as I bring you impossibly closer, feeling your solid chest graze the strain I possess beneath the fly of my jeans.

I groan lightly, drag my face up, and capture your lips again, my hands on either side of your face.

I pull back, finally opening my eyes, and find you doing the same.

And that's when the moment shatters.

Your face hardens from blissful and passionate to ice in seconds. The bitch queen is back, and you shove me away by the shoulders. Or, rather, you shove yourself away, since I'm still perched on the piano's top and you, Kurt, are free to move about the floor.

"Are we done here, Karofsky? I need to get home, and I just can't _wait_ to be rid of you," you huff defiantly. You fix your hair and straighten your vest and bowtie, your cute little designer clothes entirely Kurt-like in style and pattern and color and form.

"Y-yeah," I pant lightly, my voice small and fragile and quiet. "We're done here, Hummel. We can go our separate ways, now." And I glance away, because it's too painful. Not my arousal, not the callous expression on your face (although both hurt in their own ways), but instead my heart. My heart is thumping and twisting in my chest, my stomach in knots, as you turn sharply on your heel, collect your messenger bag, and leave the choir room without another word.

Except…

At school the next day, you can't take your eyes off of me. I can feel your eyes even when I'm not looking at you; I promised I'd drop them. But whenever we pass in the halls or whenever we share a class, I catch you out of the corner of my vision peering over at me.

Are you glaring out of loathing? Are you curious to see if I'll keep my word?

Or did you actually enjoy making out with me, and want to do it again?

…I guess I'll never have an answer.

But it's enough for me to at least know that you can look at me, now, without being scared, Kurt. At least there's_ that_.


	2. Kurt:: The Moment The Truth In Your Lies

**A/N: Re-read this and its reviews, and I decided that I wanted a sequel with Kurt's thoughts from before and then afterward. So here you go, something weird to add to the weirdness from the first part! XD**

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I can't stand the levels you bring me down to.

When I'm around you, I turn into just as much of a bully as you, albeit my methods are more emotional than physical, and I absolutely _despise _the fact that, even though I thought – knew – used to – still do? – I liked Blaine, you somehow keep showing up at every turn, making me doubt myself.

And at first, I didn't want to kiss you. Didn't want to touch you. You disgusted me, Karofsky, because you were the embodiment of my pain, the pain that made me leave McKinley to begin with.

And yet…

While you bared your heart and soul to me, and held me and kissed me and touched me so passionately, so gently, so warmly –

_I couldn't refuse you._

There was something about the way you captivated me and let me take control that made jarring waves of thrill and electricity run through me, zipping down my spine and into my fingertips. My heart began to race for you, and I know you could feel it, because your hand went to my chest and you _felt _what you were doing to me.

I lost myself for those few short minutes. I lost my resolve, my hatred, my reasoning, my mind. I lost it all on account of _you._

I want to say that I still hate you, David. I want to say that you're still "Karofsky" to me, a bully and a jerk, but I can't. I can't say it, can't even think it, because now you're on my mind constantly. All I think about is you. And how I could help you come to terms with things, and how I could alleviate your pain, and how I could touch you again.

But you made a promise to me, and what sort of person would I be if I broke that promise and came to you first? If I sat there and said, 'Oh, sorry about being so cold before, I was just confused and startled and a little bitter and angry, but now I want to try something with you'?

That's not right. And I know it.

I also know that you are in no way prepared for a relationship, Dave. You wouldn't be right in one, and especially not with me. We would tear each other apart. We would hurt one another. We would be too strong together, your insecurity and my willpower clashing violently. I would be cruel and kind, and so would you. It would be a mess.

And worst yet, it would be a _secret,_ because I know how much you intend on staying in the closet, if not for high school then perhaps through college as well. I know, because I was there at one point. Even I, the ever-flamboyant Kurt Hummel, was terrified of leaving the closet at one point. And I can only _imagine _how much more intense it would be for _you._

Still, though. _Still. _You won't leave me. I want you to, because I don't want to feel this way about someone I can hardly forgive let alone forget, and yet… It's there. The chemistry, the feelings, the memory of touch. I can't get you out of my head, cannot will away how my heart races in anticipation every single time I see you.

So I stare. I stare and stare and stare at you, my eyes never leaving every curve, every line, every inch of fabric and skin on your body. Your face, your hands, and your torso especially. I stare and stare, and my friends think that I am glaring with hate, and perhaps you do, too.

You're all a tad correct.

I hate how you make me feel, Karofsky. I don't think it's right that you made me do what we did (make out in the choir room after everyone had gone just so you could get out some shred of your sick infatuation with me, begging and pleading to have it even if it meant never coming near me again, which I thought I had wanted, despite the compensation you required). But it happened, because I had agreed, because I didn't see much harm in a few kisses and touches if it meant I would be rid of my tormentor.

But you never intended on bullying me again, did you? You only said it because you knew it's what I assumed.

And now I couldn't be more wrong. About _everything._

Because now…

_Now,_ I see your love and pain, I see how you just want me happy and only wanted to be selfish only once, and I see how much I could get used to you, even _like _you, if I gave you a chance.

But like I said, you couldn't handle a relationship right now.

And I don't think I could deal with a secret one even if you _could. _

So instead, I make a proposition for you. I approach you after school one day, catching you in the empty hallway before you head out to your truck.

"Karofsky," I address, and you still completely, head bowing, shoulders tensing.

"Kurt," you murmur, and with a stab of guilt I think about how much I feel for you when you mean my name like that, so much emotion buried inside your tone. "What is it?" And you aren't looking at me, not at all.

I huff, my jaw squaring, as I hug my math and French books in my arms to my chest. "I want a new deal. I don't like our old one of you ignoring me. Turn around and face me right now, and let's formulate something else."

"Why?" you croak, ever unsure, and turn to face me with a stoic expression on your face. You are trying so hard not to let your guard down again, because I hurt you so badly before. And I hate that I know how I hurt you, because now I regret it. And why should I, when you hurt me countless times before in other ways?

But emotional scars never heal like bruises do, and I know that. And _that's _why I feel bad about it.

"Because," I say firmly, inhaling slowly as I prepare myself to say what I have to say next. I drop my gaze, looking elsewhere, anywhere but your telling hazel eyes that belie everything, especially your careful expression. "I didn't mean it, what I said. About being rid of you. At least, not any longer. I… I see how much of an impact I have on you, Dave. And I don't like it. I want to fix it. So, instead of never doing anything to me… I ask instead that you try befriending me. Can you do that? Because if you do, I might be able to forgive you, or at least begin to."

You blink, and you look like you're nearly about to cry. I roll my eyes and set down my books and bag right there in the hallway, and move closer. You continue to question me with your eyes, your lips parting, as if about to voice your thoughts. But I cut you off my laying my hand on your chest, directly on the patch of exposed polo between your open letterman's buttons.

Your heart is pounding. It's going wild, like my steadily increasing nerves are. My fingers tingle at the heat of your body through your clothes. I lick my lips, my eyes focused on your collarbones just barely showing above the collar of your shirt. My eyes flicker upward, and yours have fallen to half-mast. I can see lust and love there, mingled together confusingly, as teenage hormones tend to make things.

"But we don't have to be normal friends who hang out on weekends or sit together at lunch. We can just… talk. I'll give you my cell phone number. I have unlimited texting and calls free past seven o' clock each night. And sometimes… we can meet up, and you can… let me help you again. I know you need some sort of help, David. And I'm here for whatever kind you need."

You make a whimpering sound, your lip quivering slightly. And then you duck your head and close the gap between our lips.

I'm not surprised. It's just like you to be this way. So I close my eyes and slowly slide my hand up from your chest to get tied up in your hair. You hold me, steadfast, your big hands wrapping around my waist and clinging. You're taller, built bigger, and yet you are no where nearly as strong as I am, in a matter of speaking. You come apart in my arms, desperate and needy, and you kiss me with all you've got.

I'm the one, this time, who laces my tongue with yours. And I'm the one who breaks the kiss first to look at you. My eyes search your eyes, your face, and you do the same right back to me, although your eyes flicker to my lips more often than not. You love kissing me, don't you, David? For someone who is so opposed to being gay, you seem to thoroughly enjoy acting on your feelings for me.

And I have to say, in this moment, all I feel is flattery about that.

"Does this help you at all?" I ask, my voice careful.

You nod numbly. "Yeah. Yeah, it does."

I don't know how. I don't know if being this close to you helps you accept your homosexuality or if it eases the ache in your breast or if it simply makes you feel better because I'm being willing despite what you've done to me, it doesn't entirely matter. I just feel better knowing that I'm helping you somehow, because if it gets you one step closer to healing, to coming out, or to being ready for a relationship… then… well, _great. _

"Please, tell me this isn't a one-time thing like I thought last time was," you mumble after I lean in and kiss you again. "Please tell me this means you feel something for me, Kurt."

"I'm not sure what it is I feel," I remark, my tone odd even to me, and I make a face that's halfway between being conflicted and being annoyed, all at myself, but maybe a little bit at you, too. "I only know that I can't pretend that that time by the piano didn't happen. I can't pretend that you didn't say 'I love you' to me, even if I think your definition of love is backwards, like you said. And if I can't pretend, then I have to continue and move on. And this is one way of doing it."

You seem completely – possibly more than – satisfied with this. You nod solemnly, and then lean forward to drop your chin to my shoulder. The side of your nose grazes my throat, and I can feel your fingers tracing a random patter down my spine as your hands come to rest on the small of my back. My heart skips a beat when you say in a hushed whisper so close to my ear, "_Thank you_."

I shiver a little, my eyes fluttering shut as I scrunch my hands in the back of your letterman, nails digging into the fabric to just barely feel the cloth beneath. I exhale shakily, feeling nothing but warmth as your lips press to junction of neck and shoulder over my designer shirt, moving swiftly over to my ear, kissing gently. My hands fist tighter, my body arcing into yours.

I enjoy the feel of you too much, Dave. I don't know why, but I _love_ it. I love feeling warm, I love being held, I love the sensation of your lips and tongue, I love feeling _loved. _Even if it's backwards, even if it began horribly, even if it's going to go on like this for a while (in which we both don't know what to do with each other because there is too much between us, too much of too many wrong and right things that are at war with each other).

It's bizarre, and unlike anything I have every heard of, what we have here. The bully and the bullied acting as momentary lovers, off and on, being cruel and kind? It's painful in all sorts of ways, and in this particular case, entirely detrimental.

But I don't want it to stop. Because if it stopped like it nearly had after the first incident, then you would only be on my mind that much more.

I pull away, mindful of your weight on me. "David," I say carefully, "We're still in a hallway. Someone coming out of a club or something could see us." And I'm both ashamed to be seen with you as I also care about how you would feel to be Outed in such a way. Again, the conflict is odd, but there.

You nod again, stepping away from me, your hands lingering on me for a few seconds before falling to your sides. Your gaze is cast aside, and I can see how you're trying to calm your heart and breathing. "Yeah, you're right. Sorry. But, um. So. I can have your number, right? And we can…" and you drift off, leaving it up to me, leaving it unsaid because it has no label. I was wrong to even attempt in calling it 'befriending.'

I nod once in affirmation. "Yes. Here," and I bring out my phone, and hold out a hand for yours. You give it to me, and I do the process of adding my number to yours while I give you mine to add your own number. I laugh, though, when you're lost on how to use an iPhone, your own phone being a basic sliding, texting phone that someone pays per month as they go.

When the numbers are added, I let you go. I let you leave for your car, and meanwhile, I walk with adrenaline coursing through my veins, my head buzzing, as the ghosts of your body heat and touches linger on my body.

I don't love you. I know that much; I mean, how could I, considering? –But there is something about you that stays with me, remains no matter how much I try to will you away, and it might be the beginnings of interest or a crush or something similar.

Just as I get into my car, I glance over in no particular direction, but when I do, I see you, David. You're there, in your truck, about to leave, but your eyes are on my figure in my car, and I can see you smiling.


End file.
